ㅤㅤI had recently moved to the Yorkshire Dales with my rescue dog, Splash, so-named for his love of puddles, and this summer past we had ambled through the woodland on long walks on a weekend. He would always dart ahead, rustling through the leaf litter for insects or fallen branches, while I meandered behind, taking photos to share with my friends back in the city. We had traversed this particular patch of wood before but never before had I seen the wych elm. Knotted and lifeless, it towered over the bracken like a rotten hand. It was Splash who found it, and he sniffed around the roots as I caught up, my camera a heavy weight around my neck.
ㅤㅤThe tree was tall and somewhat misplaced among the lush greenery of the wood. I noticed in my approach that the trunk was heavily scarred and moving closer still saw that the scars were man made. Names and dates. Lou G + Paul, 1992. Niall and Lee, 1977. Mary K and Roy L, 1954. I ran my fingers over the crudely scratched names with a sense of borrowed nostalgia.
ㅤㅤI imagined generations of young couples meeting at this apparent beauty spot that I never knew existed. The names stretched back decades and the oldest I could find, now faint and barely legible near the detritus, was over one hundred years old. Hattie and Ira, 1883. I began to snap away, circling the wide trunk while Splash zig-zagged in and out of my legs. A deep hollow cut into the tree on the opposite side and as I leaned in with my camera my heart stopped. I dropped the camera and squinted at the names etched on the ridge of the hole.
ㅤㅤThe tree was tall and somewhat misplaced among the lush greenery of the wood. I noticed in my approach that the trunk was heavily scarred and moving closer still saw that the scars were man made. Names and dates. Lou G + Paul, 1992. Niall and Lee, 1977. Mary K and Roy L, 1954. I ran my fingers over the crudely scratched names with a sense of borrowed nostalgia.
ㅤㅤI imagined generations of young couples meeting at this apparent beauty spot that I never knew existed. The names stretched back decades and the oldest I could find, now faint and barely legible near the detritus, was over one hundred years old. Hattie and Ira, 1883. I began to snap away, circling the wide trunk while Splash zig-zagged in and out of my legs. A deep hollow cut into the tree on the opposite side and as I leaned in with my camera my heart stopped. I dropped the camera and squinted at the names etched on the ridge of the hole.